


Break

by weekends



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Angst, Duty, Family, First Time, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-23 21:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekends/pseuds/weekends
Summary: They grow up, together and apart. They love; and they learn, too late, that love isn’t enough.





	Break

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the BONUS PROLOGUE and written to take place a short while after it, just in case you want to avoid spoilers for bonus material. Basically, the prologue gives us the first look at Jamshid around Muntadhir, along with other heavier plot-related stuff, but the fic should still make sense even if you haven't read it. 
> 
> Thank you, Allison, wherever you are, for beta-ing this. I have zero impulse-control so I have to publish this.

 

“Good on you, Pramukh! Going for Captain, eh? Show your Geziri fellows a Daeva is just as good in combat.”

The old man is _so loud_ , Muntadhir can hear him clearly over the music of the tavern. The Daeva man is sitting next to Jamshid at the table beside Muntadhir’s. In the dim lighting, it’s a struggle to read their faces, and Muntadhir has to watch discreetly from the corner of his eye, his focus remaining on the dancers in front. He hears rather than sees the jovial smile in Jamshid’s voice as he responds.

“I’ll show them we’re better at chess, too," Jamshid says.

The man laughs heartily, slapping Jamshid on the back. “Ah, ever Kaveh’s boy.” Some wine from his untouched cup sloshes onto his tunic. “They tell me he was the brightest when he studied at the Grand Temple.”

Muntadhir angles his ear to the conversation beside him, eyes forward on the dancers. His father will want to know more about Kaveh.

“Your mother was quite talented to drag him away from the books.” Muntadhir can hear the older man's obvious wink.

“Do you know much of her?” A half-hopeful note plays in Jamshid’s question, and Muntadhir’s heart twinges in sympathy.

“Oh, no. Never heard much of her, but Kaveh must’ve had to be quite something himself to keep bringing her back, no?” the man says, loudly. Jamshid grimaces -- probably because he doesn’t want to hear about the sordid details of parents’ courting. The man blathers on, “Us Daeva men are better in bed, too. All that fire and passion, it has to go somewhere, and the women love it—” Jamshid’s grimace grows decidedly alarmed— “hey, where are you going!”

Jamshid sets his cup down and neatly exits the tavern. This won’t do. Muntadhir picks up two goblets and a bottle, and follows.

It’s late enough that it’s almost early. Fog rests close to the ground, providing cover for the rats scurrying across the alleyway. The moon is low enough in the sky to be hidden by the same high walls that hide the entrance to the tavern. Jamshid rests against the cool stone, head tipped to the skies.

“Did I live up to the rumours?” Muntadhir asks, echoing a line from their first conversation. He recalls, with faint amusement, that Jamshid had expected him to wax poetic after a glass of wine, jokingly disappointed when Muntadhir didn’t deliver. That was a week ago.

Muntadhir slides next to him against the wall. He looks up as well; there aren’t any stars tonight.

“I think you lived up to this particular rumour when a dancer or two basically crawled into your lap,” says Jamshid, “Though I’m not sure it counts if someone else is fulfilling the rumour and you a non-participant.”

“That rumour, I’d be happy to participate in.” Muntadhir smirks. “We did have some nice 'conversation', after all.”

Jamshid grins. “But it’s so _loud_ in there, Emir,” he says, voice painted in mock concern, “How does anyone hear anything?”

“You’re an ass.” He resists the urge to swat Jamshid on the arm and hands a wine goblet to him instead, topping it up halfway. “Here, have some.”

It’s one of his favourite varieties, but its excellence is lost on Jamshid. He cautiously sniffs at it, nose wrinkling.

Win his loyalty, his father had said. The loyalty of _this_ Daeva boy, Muntadhir thinks, who doesn’t seem to have any respect for protocol and insults Muntadhir’s refined palate. He’s not sure whether to retrospectively balk at his father’s request or be pleased it isn’t as boorish as he’d expected; at any rate, he’s glad he doesn’t have to play polite diplomat for this assignment.  

“Give it a try. This is better than the other stuff you were given.”

He eyes the liquid dubiously. “It smells just as unpleasant.”

Muntadhir rolls his eyes. “Just drink it.”

Jamshid takes a bracing mouthful, holds it in his mouth for a second before he swallows and pulls a face. “I don’t know how you can drink the stuff like water. All I taste is karkadan feet.”

Muntadhir hums around his own sip. “It’s a taste to learn. I’ll teach you soon enough.” And if it loosens Jamshid’s tongue enough to spill of Kaveh’s life in Zariaspa, all the better.

Jamshid raises his goblet in a toast. “Here’s to hoping I won’t get as poetic as you when intoxicated.”

The cheek on this boy. “You wish you were as poetic as me.”

He raises his goblet to Jamshid’s.

//

Since taking Jamshid to the tavern didn’t work, Muntadhir thinks a tour of the palace might.

It doesn’t.

Jamshid is only politely impressed by the palace art, and his mind seems elsewhere. It isn’t long before he turns the tables on Muntadhir and proposes a new idea.

“Here, wear this. You won’t stand out as much.”

Muntadhir holds the grey tunic at arm’s length. There are khandjar tears at the collar. “Is this clean?”

Jamshid throws his spare waist-wrap at Muntadhir as well. “Clean enough.”

He’s too slow tamping down his horror. Jamshid sees it and smirks, “Too precious to venture out as a commoner, Emir?”

Muntadhir turns his nose up. Challenge accepted.

The fabric isn’t even close to being soft and it isn’t scented with citrus and jasmine, but Jamshid’s smug look at his discomfort shuts any complaint from being voiced.

“Where are we going?” he asks as they walk, “You said you were going to show me real art.”

“Honest art, Emir,” Jamshid corrects him, “The palace works are lovely but sometimes a man needs to get his hands dirty to make art.”

They left the palace along a dirt trail a while ago, the grand lushness transmuting to sand-packed paths. At the gates, he follows Jamshid straight into the Grand Bazaar. A chaos of sound immediately pours into the air, filled with dust and various feathers kicked up by angry customers and cargo. Vendors yell of their wares into the sea of foot traffic, and the foot traffic sometimes barks back. Or squawks back. Muntadhir barely manages to not get run over by a cage full of screaming bellbirds pushed forward by two small shafit.

“This way.” Jamshid pulls his hand and they dip into a small plaza. There are fewer merchants here; probably for the more affluent crowd. He drops his hand and leads Muntadhir to a shaded corner, gesturing at the altar.

Muntadhir’s breath catches. The altar before him is average in size and would be average in every other respect if not for the panelling. The mother-of-pearl inlay used makes it as if he’s looking at the colour between night and day. Intricate sprawls of vines and flowers pattern the inlay, each petal and leaf glossy with precious stone.

“The Agnivanshi quarter has a whole lot more of these, if you’re interested. The technique is applied to bowls and tables, anything really,” Jamshid explains.

He moves them along. The merchants seem more interested in their games of chess or dice with their neighbours than regaling them with the selling points of their wares.

Jamshid stops at one of the larger stalls. “What do you think of this one?”

“It’s a carpet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Emir. But what do you see?”

Peering at the dense geometry eventually reveals small animals and plants hiding amongst the shapes. Muntadhir blinks to clear his vision: nonsensical scribbles of thread on a red background. He focuses his eyes again: animals bounding amongst trees.

Whoa. “How do they do that? There’s so much detail, it looks alive.”

“See? This is a Daeva work—don’t expect me to divulge our artistic secrets— but it also draws a little bit from Tukharistani influence. You can see it in how the clouds are weaved in.” Jamshid keeps walking, Muntadhir in tow. He mockingly affects the posture and tone of a wise sage. “Beauty is found anywhere, if one is willing to look.”

“I can’t believe you just said that. If I said that, you would be making fun of me right now.”

A winged monkey scatters in front of them, kicking up dust at its owner chasing behind. Jamshid laughs. “You are in my territory now,” he says.

“You realise I am Emir, no? The whole of Daevabad is technically my territory.”

“Okay, then. Tell me what this is.” Mirth sparks in his eyes as he picks up a piece of embroidered cloth from a display table. It has little stockings on top, but Muntadhir can’t figure out the use for its shape.

“If this is sex paraphernalia…”

“No!” Jamshid blushes. “Why do you think everything is… sex paraphernalia?” He says _sex_ carefully. Muntadhir thinks it’s endearing. “It’s a fly mask.”

“A what?”

“For horses. Their ears go here, you see—” he pokes his fingers in the stockings— “and the rest is draped over their heads, so the flies don’t bother them.”

“How do they see?”

“The cloth is a little transparent. Here, you try it.”

Muntadhir reels back. “I don’t want horse paraphernalia on my head!”

“Fine, but the embroidery is quite nice.” He traces the waves and loops with a careful finger. “Probably from before Zaydi al Qahtani’s time.”

“I still don’t want it on my head.”

Their hands-on art exhibition continues on, time passing without dragging. The sun sets, and Muntadhir reclaims his position as generous host by dragging Jamshid to a dingy tavern. He had found this place overhearing Geziri guards arguing over the best dance parlours in the quarter. It’s not as embellished as his usual haunts, but the enthusiastic crowd and music more than make up for it.

“You _dance_?” Jamshid’s eyes almost bug out.

“Of course. I am trained in all arts.” Muntadhir doesn’t mention that he’s also terrible at almost all arts. “Hand me your khandjar. It’s not quite a jambiya, but it’ll do.”

“You’re not going to brawl with your subjects, are you?”

Muntadhir just holds out his hand again.

Jamshid relents. “Fine. Don’t lose it.”

The music changes and Muntadhir leaves Jamshid at his seat. The line out front has already started, but he’s familiar enough with the beat to slide in without interrupting. It’s as freeing as he remembers it. He moves his body across the breadth of the floor with the rest of the men, hand flicking the blade when called for. Zaynab had complained last time he danced this at a relative’s wedding in Am Gezira; she was a girl, so she wasn’t allowed to participate. He wonders what Jamshid thinks.

On the next turn, he finds him easily, impossibly, in the blur of faces. Flames from the torches glint in the dark of his eyes. They cast shadows from his brow and across his nose, solidifying yet softening his features like an improved rendering of a long-forgotten manuscript figure. Muntadhir feels his gaze on him for the rest of the song.

He is warm from the inside out when he leaves the line, like he’s swallowed the sun. It doesn’t matter that his hair is a wild mess and his skin is sticky from the humidity. He remembers Jamshid’s eyes hot on him earlier and feels impossibly warmer.

But a moment later, when the crowd parts around Jamshid’s seat, the feeling is doused cold. Another boy sits beside him, a hand trailing down Jamshid’s arm. It’s clear there is nothing polite in the gesture. Muntadhir walks up to them.

“I haven’t brawled with anyone and I haven’t lost your khandjar,” he says, coolly returning the blade, “I have done pretty well as your host, wouldn’t you think?”

Jamshid looks caught. “Emir.” He stands, and the boy scurries away, shocked at Muntadhir’s presence. “Are we leaving already?”

Muntadhir catches Jamshid’s hand. “I think we’ve seen plenty for a day. Besides, I desperately need to get out of these things you call clothes, and into a bath.”

Jamshid’s expression turns smug, but he doesn’t say anything. His hand is warm in his as they leave the tavern and walk onto the emptying streets. Ghassan had recently halved patrols in the Geziri quarter, but patrol should still be around soon to do a rendition of ‘enforcing curfew’. Muntadhir knows it’s nothing more than a token of fairness.

“Did you enjoy yourself today?” he asks Jamshid.

Jamshid is quiet for a moment. “It wasn’t… what I expected,” he finally says, “You weren’t what I expected.”

Muntadhir feels his heart flutter. “You weren’t either.”

Jamshid smiles at him. The warmth from earlier feels stoked alive again in the pit of his stomach. They walk together, hands brushing between them, until they reach the gate. The palace guard will escort him the rest of the way.

They smile goodbye at each other and part ways. The warmth stays with Muntadhir for the rest of the night.

//

“I don’t need new clothes, Emir.”

“You do if you’re going to be Captain one day. I can’t have you trailing around me in dirty linen.” Muntadhir drags the heavy curtain shut, swathing the dressing room in darkness. He moves to do the same with the other.

Jamshid snorts from his display island. “I apologise, my Emir, my clothes haven’t been sewn by ten gold elephants dancing on a line.”

“One day, I’ll exile you for insulting me.” He dusts his hands and gingerly steps over bolts of cloth to stand authoritatively before Jamshid in the middle. He’s standing on a pedestal for his fitting and Muntadhir keenly feels his lack of height as he looks up at him. “The seamstress should be here with new material any minute.” He jabs a finger at Jamshid. “Strip.”

Jamshid obliges him after a generous eye roll. His movements are unhurried as he removes his tunic. It falls to the floor gracefully, Jamshid’s posture just as lithe.

Training at the Citadel has done him well. His waist trimly brackets a hard stomach, broad shoulders haughty with mock-pride as Jamshid draws his chin back. “Like what you see?”

“I can be curious.”

“Be as curious as you want, Emir.”

The afternoon sun smudges around the edges of the curtains, wispily lighting the room. He can see dust float between them as his eyes travel over Jamshid’s body. There’s a tattoo on the inside of his left shoulder, three black strokes parallel to each other.

He notices Muntadhir staring. “That was from my mother. Father tells me she had that done as soon as I was born.” A pause. “It’s all I have of her.”

Muntadhir doesn’t press him for information, not the way his father would’ve wanted. “You miss her.”

Jamshid nods carefully. “Sometimes… There are times where it hurts so much, missing her, that I don’t know whether I resent her for it, too.”

He says this easily, clearly, like the sun breaking through soft clouds of pain. Jamshid is a man that is sure of himself, but Muntadhir does not want to see such clarity in Jamshid, not when it has to be won through anguish and hurt.

But he _is_ curious.

He reaches a hand to the tattoo. Jamshid stays still as a statue, his breath shuttering quiet. With an index finger, Muntadhir slowly traces the first line. It sits closest to his heart at the centre, and Muntadhir thinks he can feel Jamshid’s pulse under his skin. Or maybe that’s his own pulse, strong at their point of contact. He trails his finger similarly down the second line. Then, the third.

An exhale skates across the top of his head, and he stills his hand at the mark. When he looks up, his eyes are met by dark steel, momentarily hidden by a long, soft blink of lashes. Muntadhir doesn’t dare blink himself, not wanting a split second of Jamshid’s gaze denied to him.

Jamshid inhales carefully. The air stutters through his parted lips. Muntadhir thinks he could crane his head up, lean in, press a kiss to Jamshid’s mouth.

The door creaks open.

“The newest strain of Tukharistani silk, Emir.” The seamstress bows.

Muntadhir turns to the woman and her servant girl, and gestures them forward. She’s composed, yes, but the shock isn’t completely wiped from her features.

He silently takes the silk, assessing it. It’s light as air, cloth spun from the clouds, but Muntadhir can’t think of anything nicer against Jamshid’s skin than his own.

“This will do. Get this measured for a few tunics and whatever else you think suitable,” he says. He flicks a glance at Jamshid, who has his arms folded over his body, hiding himself. He refuses to meet Muntadhir’s eyes the rest of the fitting.

//

He’s not by any means graceful – not to anyone who’s seen Ali fight – but his movements are calculated with a measure of calm. Jamshid’s opponent rushes forward, but he doesn’t move. He stays where he is, the distance between them reducing by the second, and to anyone, it would look like he’s still in shock. But a foot away, he changes his stance and feints to the left. The man barges on past him, and Jamshid lands a good blow to his exposed side.

His unhurried manner isn’t always successful. Across a few matches, he cops several kicks to his stomach and a blade draws blood more than once. An errant fist catches him across the cheek, the force of it sending Jamshid to the dirt.

Panic overwhelms Muntadhir – Ghassan will not be pleased if his assignment has lost the ability to speak intelligibly – and he strides into the arena the moment the match is called. The jeering audience grows louder, closer to cruel laughter than good-natured ribbing. The men try to keep it from his ears, but he manages to catch snatches of it.

“’Course he’s Kaveh’s precious son, he gets _special treatment_ from the Emir,” someone sneers in Geziri.

“A simple Daeva priest has no place in the Royal Guard, let alone trying for the position of captain.”

“Can’t say he hasn’t earned it. Sucking royalty’s cock can’t be pleasant.” The men roar into laughter, loud to match the roar of blood in Muntadhir’s ears.

He doesn’t say a word, signalling his own guards to pick Jamshid up and escort him to Muntadhir’s room. Jamshid doesn’t speak either. When they’re in his room, he dismisses the guards and servants, and then, they’re alone.

Jamshid stands out amidst the carefully curated opulence. The awning opposite the bed is excessively carved and tiled, arching over a pavilion for entertaining. His brand of diplomacy usually ends in bed though, a massive thing stocked with cushions and throws below a silk canopy, sitting brazenly in the middle of the main room.

Jamshid in his dirty training uniform looks like a mark of ash on the shining, bright exuberance. His father’s voice at the back of his head tells him to clean him up, make him match Muntadhir’s things; so he approaches. He reaches a hand out.

Jamshid shoves him away, wincing as the movement twists at his bruises. A drop of blood runs down his chin and splatters onto the rug between them.

“Don’t touch me,” he spits it out like blood in his mouth.

“I won’t. I’m not.” Muntadhir raises his hands placatingly. _Make him loyal_ , his father says.

Jamshid roughly undoes his tunic. Dark bruises mottle his sides, occasionally bracketed by angry slashes leaking black blood. _Don’t touch me_ , they say. He wets a washcloth at the basin near the bed and hisses as he scrapes it across a wound, the white cloth turning muddy grey turning black.

“Let me,” offers Muntadhir.

“No.” It’s clear it hurts him to reach comfortably with his arm.

“Don’t be an ass. I can see you need help.”

“Then take me to the infirmary.”

“No, I can do this for you.” _I’m not useless_. “Let me help you.”

“Emir.” It’s the first time Jamshid looks at him today. The careless slope of his brow is gone. It frames the twist of his mouth and the shine of his eyes in confusion and hurt. “Don’t do this to me.”

He remembers Jamshid’s shaky pull of breath from last week, fluttering like silk in the wind. Today, it rattles in his own chest.

“Do what?” Muntadhir asks.

“I don’t want to be another one of your conquests.”

Time strains like blood pushing through the thinnest line for escape. Ghassan’s words have always reminded Muntadhir to smother and plaster over any cracks, but here, something rattles dangerously inside him. _Let me, let me_.

“What makes you say that?”

“Rumours, Emir. They won’t take me seriously around here anymore.” He holds the cloth to a wound at his side, holding himself closed.

“Does it matter? They’re just rumours. Be better than them and it won’t matter.”

“If I am to be captain, I need to be more than ‘better’. I need their loyalty and respect.” He speaks to his wound. “How else would I serve my people? How else would I serve you if they only see me as your rent-boy?”

A lifetime of being desired doesn’t prepare Muntadhir for this. If he wants something, he gets it; but even bloody and bruised, Jamshid wants something more than the next in line to the throne of Daevabad. He wants to serve his people more than he could ever want Muntadhir. Muntadhir wants to smash the careful pieces he’s sealed together, break into a million parts for his father to look down on.

“You aren’t that, Jamshid. I don’t want you to be one of my conquests.” He stays where he is, on the edge of shattering. “I want more than that.”

Jamshid slowly shakes his head in refusal.

“We don’t tell anyone,” Muntadhir continues, “We will be careful and it will be our secret. I— I want you.”

“I want to serve my people. Can you want that also? When your father asks you not to?”

His stomach twists. “He puts Daevabad first. And it won’t matter, because it’ll just be you and me, Jamshid.”

Jamshid exhales, shaky and quiet. His breath feels a timid thing; it reminds Muntadhir of holding dried flowers in his hand.

“It has to be this way,” says Jamshid, and his heart falls. Then, Jamshid continues, “No one can know. I am not another one of your conquests.”

Muntadhir breathes. He didn’t realise he had been holding his breath. “Yes,” he goes to Jamshid, taking the cloth from his hand and pressing against the line of black dripping at the cut near his tattoo. Jamshid inhales messily through his teeth. “Yes, Jamshid,” Muntadhir says.

“There will be no one else,” says Jamshid. Muntadhir presses harder at the wound to stop the bleeding. He can feel Jamshid brace against the agony. He continues, “Just you and me.”

“Yes,” says Muntadhir. He drags the cloth across the tattoo. “Just you and me,” he repeats.

They kiss. Muntadhir drops the cloth to softly hold Jamshid’s waist. Jamshid cups his face sweetly, eyes falling shut as he moves his lips against Muntadhir’s. He feels like he’s been given permission to break. Jamshid’s mouth is gentle on his, lips hot and swollen from the cut on his lip. He’s careful not to disturb it. He doesn’t want to break this; he has proof of the consequences in the lacerations of his heart plastered over again and again, no longer recognisable after being torn repeatedly between his family and his city.

Jamshid’s tongue probes at his mouth and Muntadhir lets him in with a soft moan. He wonders when Jamshid will break his heart.

//

Time passes with hidden kisses in abandoned palace rooms and hands clasped together as they walk through the gardens at night. Sometimes, they go dancing, and sometimes, to the tavern, where Jamshid watches quietly as Muntadhir turns down a suitor. It is not without its problems: his father looks at him in distant disappointment when the Agnivanshi metals merchant fails to see the benefit of a contract with the Al Qahtani’s. He probably knows that Muntadhir hasn’t used the whole extent of his diplomatic repertoire and hasn’t done so for a long time.

But worse than his father’s disappointment is seeing Jamshid fall in love with him. He sees it when he smiles so dearly at Muntadhir, when he pokes fun at his hair, and when he tangles their fingers together and presses a kiss to their joined hands, like they are something precious and sacred.

Love is so easy and unblemished for Jamshid. Muntadhir doesn’t have any of that. He doesn’t understand it, even with his own family, when he smiles at Ali knowing that he’s embezzling for the Tanzeem.

Muntadhir’s scared. He’s already poisoned Jamshid, because there will be a day where Daevabad comes first and he will have to choose Daevabad. His fate leaves no room for anything else.

A year later, his father asks him, “You are prepared for your scouting mission?” Cold as the marble of his throne.

“Yes, hopefully we will come across our allies from Am Gezira.” _Charm them into telling us who else has Tanzeem sympathies_ , remains unspoken.

“And you’re bringing Kaveh’s son?” Ghassan only asks questions the same way a man throws a jab before a cross. When Muntadhir replies in affirmative, Ghassan then asks him, “Are his loyalties ours?”

Muntadhir swallows around the anxiousness in his throat. “I should think so.”

His father dismisses him coolly. “Make sure of it.” _Or else_ , remains unspoken.

They set out for their mission on horseback. It’s a small company: just himself, Jamshid and a few servants. The scout meeting goes as expected and father will be pleased his dalliances aren’t for nothing. Night falls, and Muntadhir leaves his servants to finish setting up camp. He wanders to the oasis, long emptied after sundown, and sits on the ground to marvel at the sky. Stars blink back at him, bearing no answers, just simply existing. He tips his head back, borrowing from their life as he waits for his own to arrive.

Jamshid breaks through the surrounding foliage a few moments later. “Emir-joon?”

He looks soft and ready for bed, wearing a spacious tunic and nothing else. Muntadhir’s mouth runs dry. “I’m here, Jamshid.”

Jamshid sits next to him so that their arms touch. Muntadhir hears his smile when he speaks. “The scout meeting went well, didn’t it? We have all the details of the trade routes we came for.”

“Yes.” He smiles back. Muntadhir doesn’t tell him that the scouts took him aside afterward, and gave him the right names and families to pass onto Ghassan.

He leans his head on Jamshid’s shoulder. It seems impossible that they navigated the mountain range before them, but they did. In the dark, it sits jagged and sullen in its trampling.

“It was well in part to you, otherwise we would have missed them,” says Muntadhir. “You are a clever navigator, Jamshid.” He leans up to press a soft kiss below Jamshid’s ear.

“You’re complimenting me without any wine in you,” says Jamshid, amusement in his tone, “Maybe the scout meeting wasn’t as easy as you made it look like.”

Muntadhir groans and cozies further into the nook of Jamshid’s shoulder. “He was being an ass, you saw it. I’m just adept at ignoring them.”

“Even in a desert with nothing more than a half bottle of wine, you are a generous host,” he teases. Jamshid turns and tips Muntadhir’s head up with a hand at his chin. “On behalf of those ass merchants, I would like to thank you, Emir.”

Muntadhir feels his smile as he leans in and presses their lips together. There are no desert insects at this time of night, and the only sounds to fill the air are their mouths moving wetly over each other. Jamshid parts his lips, an invitation Muntadhir accepts, his tongue meeting Jamshid’s in sure strokes.

They part for air, and Muntadhir kisses down Jamshid’s throat, careful not to leave any marks. He reaches for the edge of Jamshid’s tunic. Jamshid doesn’t stop him.

“Are you sure?” he whispers. Anything more and his voice will shake as much as his hands are, as much as his heart is rattling around in his chest.

“Yes,” says Jamshid in a soft whisper, soft as the look in his eyes, “Yes.”

Muntadhir disrobes him. Even in the darkness, Jamshid glows warm, his nakedness basked by the light of the moon. He tugs at Muntadhir’s tunic, and Muntadhir obliges, stripping himself bare before returning to kiss Jamshid. Jamshid falls to his back, dragging Muntadhir down with him, and they groan at the contact of skin against skin. Jamshid rolls them over so Muntadhir is beneath him. He lines up their cocks in his hand and rolls his hips. Muntadhir gasps.

Jamshid is so beautiful, his face creased upwards in pleasure, whispered moans escaping from his flushed mouth as they grind and chase friction, over and over. The stars and moon light their bodies. Jamshid moves like waves of water Muntadhir doesn’t dare touch.

“Jamshid—” he gasps, wrapping an arm around his neck. He cranes up to meet his lips, the pressure building in his groin until it’s unbearable. Jamshid tightens the hand around them.

He swipes a thumb over Muntadhir’s slit and whispers into his mouth, “Come for me, Muntadhir.”

His release leaves him in hot spurts and a breathless cry torn from his mouth. Jamshid follows him a few thrusts after. Moonlight bounces off the sheen across his skin, setting him aglow like one of the Nahid figures in the palace paintings.

“I love you,” says Jamshid, because their come is still drying on his belly and it’s easy for him to say.

“I love you, too,” says Muntadhir, because it’s true.

It’s truer than Jamshid will ever know because the night after, they pull into a rest town. A Tukharistani girl with obsidian hair falling to her waist drags her hands over Muntadhir and Muntadhir lets her pull him to bed, approving whistles and calls from the men behind him. Jamshid is silent amongst them.

His love for Jamshid has always been tangled in pain, but he detangles the knots and straightens the path enough to give Jamshid a way out. When Muntadhir chooses, he will have no choice but Daevabad.

//

Muntadhir doesn’t see or hear from Jamshid. He wraps up the ache, plasters over it until the white-hot hurt barely seeps through the spaces. When he goes to meetings with his father, Kaveh rarely looks him in the face. He must know, then, but he hasn’t told Ghassan; it would not be in either of their best interests to do so.

On the few occasions Muntadhir does manage to catch Kaveh’s eye, the looks he receives from him are scorched in hatred. Muntadhir feels the same.

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks Zaynab.

A bird swoops down to the stream beside Ali’s pavilion. It emerges with a fish in its beak, leaving them with a flap of its wings and the snap of the fish’s spine. It’s a nice day to be a bird in Daevabad.

“No, why? Have you?” she replies, excitement ramping up in her voice. Zaynab waves the approaching servant girl away. She pops a grape in her mouth and chews gleefully, jabbing a finger at him. “Oooh, who’s the unfortunate soul?”

“Stop it. And don’t chew with your mouth open, it’s not ladylike.”

Zaynab gives him a contrary snort. “Tell me, Dhiru. Who is it?” She pelts a grape at him.

“Stop!” Muntadhir confiscates the entire bowl. “I’m not telling you. I just want to know if you have any… advice to give me.” He plucks a grape for himself. The bird is back, perched on a nearby vine as it stares into the water, searching.

“Did you just ask me for my womanly insight?” He can hear her eye-roll. “My knowledge of love comes from palace gossip. And, I suppose, whoever Father will sell my hand to one day,” she adds bitterly.

It’s times like this Muntadhir is reminded that children of kings never get to lead their own lives. He thinks he can bear it for himself, but seeing his little sister and brother put through it is like dragging his heart over hot coals.

“You can’t know that for sure, little bird,” he says softly. Except that he does know; Ghassan told him as much.

“Ugh, don’t call me that. I’m not a child anymore, _and_ I’m taller than you!” She ruffles a hand in Muntadhir’s hair.

They squabble for a bit, Muntadhir attempting to smack her hands away. “Stop, Zaynab! Do you know how long it took me to do my hair this morning?” He rakes a hand through his hair in an attempt to fix it. “None of the servants get it right.”

Zaynab relents with peals of laughter. “Oh, Dhiru. Sometimes I think you love your hair more than you do your current conquests. So, tell me.” She props her chin on her hands primly. “Who is it?”

“I’m not telling,” he grumbles at her. He pauses. “I don’t even know if… if they love me anymore.” He stares down at his hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

Zaynab stares at him. She looks more like her mother and Ali: sharp cheekbones and narrow faces. Everything about their features lends one to think they know everything and more. “You haven’t felt this way before, have you?”

Muntadhir shakes his head.

“You’re in love, then,” like it’s as simple as saying it. “Wouldn’t Father be pleased you’ve found a match?”

Muntadhir doesn’t say anything, watching the bird bob along the vine. She connects the dots a second later.

“I see,” she says. “Then make sure they know, Dhiru.” The bird dives. This time, it emerges empty. “Daevabad comes first.”

//

The tavern is rowdy with celebration. Men of the Royal Guard laugh and clap each other on the back; they're celebrating the newest class of promotions with no small amount of wine and women and other vices. The room is hazy with smoke, packed with bodies, but still Muntadhir finds him, easy as true north on a compass.

“Congratulations on your captainship,” Muntadhir says, making sure his voice carries over the din of the tavern. Jamshid stiffens and turns around. His fellow men of the Royal Guard leave them with polite nods. Muntadhir continues, “Was the exam difficult?”

“No, Emir.” It is rare that Jamshid adheres to protocol. His head is bowed slightly, his posture in the unwavering outline of the Royal Guard. He adds, a touch late, “Thank you for your concern.”

“I have a few other concerns I would like to discuss. Specifically, regarding my patrol.” _You can’t refuse me now._ “Come.”

They walk out of the tavern, Muntadhir not daring to look back at Jamshid. The guards stand back when they realise their Captain is with him. Jamshid takes the lead and they walk alone in silence. The moon isn’t out tonight and stars glow weakly from behind the clouds, but Jamshid swiftly walks them off the well-worn pathways onto a track that becomes more dirt than path as they progress. The trees are thicker here, and eventually there’s nothing but black enveloping them.

His eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness yet, so Muntadhir is shocked when Jamshid’s mouth finds his. Pleasure quickly takes over and he parts his mouth as Jamshid pushes him against a tree. He shoves his leg between Muntadhir’s, and Muntadhir grinds himself against it, desperate for more friction. Jamshid tears away from his mouth to tongue at the copper bolts through his right ear. He knows he would hand his relic over to Jamshid in a second.

The thought drives him mad. His hands grip at Jamshid’s waist, his hips rolling forward again and again. Jamshid captures his mouth with a groan. He’s going to come. He’s going to come in his waist-wrap and walk back to the tavern, same as Jamshid will, and he can’t do that to him. Muntadhir tears his mouth away and pushes back.

Jamshid’s features are still caught in desire. His dark hair falls softly around his red mouth, swollen with their kissing. The stars, moon and sun: if he could, Muntadhir would rearrange them with his bare hands to press his lips to Jamshid’s again; but he only has Daevabad, more immovable than any cosmic entity. He watches as hurt flickers across Jamshid’s face and somewhere in the world, a star impossibly falls from the sky.

“I’m just one of them, aren’t I?” asks Jamshid, speaking to the ground. “I’m just another one of your conquests.”

That he would think that, Muntadhir feels his chest peel open. “No, Jamshid. It’s not like that, I promise.”

“How do I know?” He turns his glare on him and Muntadhir tries not to flinch at the hurt in his eyes. “You lie to me so easily.”

“I have never lied to you.”

Jamshid has too much faith. He doesn’t do anything by half measures if he believes in it. He loves his people and his city as true as he himself can, and Muntadhir has taken that faith and crushed it under his boot like a bug.

“You hide things from me, Muntadhir. You think I’m too easy-going to see it, but I do.”

“I do it to protect you.” _Don’t make me choose_. “I do it for the good of the city.”

“That’s what father says to me, when he leaves for—” he cuts himself off— “He shuts me out, too.”

He doesn’t care that Ghassan would want to know where Kaveh leaves for. “You have to understand that this is what we have to do to protect the city.”

“This has nothing to do with Daevabad or politics!” Pained anger sharpens his features, a knife point Muntadhir would wear down with his own body for Jamshid to be easy and free again. “This is about you lying to me, even after we—after everything. You just left me.”

Muntadhir feels his heart stop, every dying pulse dragging through his veins like claws. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He has to.

“I couldn’t stay. I was wrong. It can’t just be you and me. You have your father and your people, and I—” _have no one, just you—_ “have Daevabad.”

“That’s it? You want to ignore who you are so you can rule the city? After all this, Muntadhir, you’re telling me you will settle down with a woman your father choses and have a _family_ with her?”

“There’s nothing else, Jamshid!” He remembers his father’s words: _Harden your heart_. “I am Emir. That is all I am.”

“No,” Jamshid shakes his head, eyes wild, “No, Muntadhir. You can change things. You say so yourself, sometimes. Or is that all… Are they all just empty platitudes?” He looks at Muntadhir, sees him for the weak, spineless lovesick fool he is.

His silence says enough. Jamshid scoffs. “Of course. You never fight back. You never _fight_ for anything—for your little brother, for your sister—for me, even.” Anguish colours his tone. “I thought you… I thought you loved me.”

Muntadhir says, “Love isn’t enough.”

The fault lines within him crack open, pieces sinking under a cursed river. How silly he was to think he could keep this intact.

“I’m sorry, Jamshid, I can only be Emir. Can’t we be together anyway? Can’t we just have that?”

“I don’t know,” he says, voice small.

The problem is that Jamshid always knows. He’s a Daeva man who defied his father to become captain of the Royal Guard; he is always true to his heart, but Muntadhir’s broken it to match his own.

“I can’t see a way out,” says Jamshid, “But I want this too much. I don’t know what else to do.”

He doesn’t want Jamshid to do this and resign himself to betrayal after betrayal, but he’s weak. He’ll take what he can.

“You don’t want this, Jamshid,” he tries anyway.

Anger flashes across his features, sharpens his words. “I don’t care anymore.” He shoves Muntadhir back against the tree. Then, softer, “I wish I didn’t care so much.”

“Okay,” says Muntadhir. Jamshid needs to only blink and Muntadhir will fold.

They kiss and kiss in the dark, hot as a dying star. He remembers how this started as a simple assignment from his father: make Kaveh’s son our hostage. He’s not sure who’s being held hostage anymore.

//

Months later, Muntadhir watches a silver arrow glint in the moonlight. It glides smoothly through the air, sure in its path, and finds itself neatly embedded in Jamshid’s shoulder. Others follow suit, burying themselves in his stomach, his neck, his heart.

He sees Jamshid fall to his knees, as easy as he once smiled. Blackness seeps out where his skin is sliced open. Blood runs from his mouth and he falls. He falls where Muntadhir should have fallen.

Love is too much.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Me writing this entire thing: that shit hurted
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think! Here or [on tumblr](http://cafexuada.tumblr.com).


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